


Two Hundred and Twenty One Fics

by loyalnerdwp



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, Established Relationship, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hallucinations, M/M, Past Tense, Post Reichenbach, Present Tense, Prompt Fic, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-10
Updated: 2012-12-03
Packaged: 2017-11-11 19:36:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 15,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/482145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loyalnerdwp/pseuds/loyalnerdwp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On my tumblr, I often take prompts from my followers, but once they're filled I don't know what to do with them. This compilation was created for such a purpose - all of my prompt fills will be stored here after completion. This is not in one universe - expect teen!Lock, parent!Lock, who!Lock, cases, first kisses, first times; endless possibilities and endless Johnlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hardly Dancing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **I-am-lokilocked** requested a slow dancing fic between John and Sherlock.

Any attempts that Sherlock had made to bury affection and attraction for his flatmate had become useless when he saw him in a suit.

It was already clear to the detective that John was interested in him - he wasn’t daft, he knew the underlying signs of attraction, and John wasn’t one to just shag someone and move on. The doctor was pining after a romantic relationship, one that Sherlock knew he would be rubbish at providing and therefore didn’t want to attempt. John was of high value to him as an assistant and companion; risking their friendship with something as trivial as a relationship felt so completely stupid that it was easy for the detective to shove away his endearing feelings toward the doctor.  
  
He’d noticed around the time they had visited Baskerville that his affection for John was slightly more than just that. Watching the doctor take charge and pull rank had induced an extremely poorly timed stirring inside him; he’d been able to lose himself in the whirlwind case and forget about it for the time being, but reviewing the fact afterwards had created an annoying and persistent bug in the back of his head.  
  
The detective was extremely aware (painfully so) of how his suicide had affected John - Mycroft made a point of bringing it up during his hiatus period as often as they made contact. When he made his return, the mix of emotions on the doctor’s face had been so muddled that Sherlock had wondered if John was going to punch him or kiss him. He knew he deserved the first option, but he found himself rather hopeful that the second would occur instead. The punch he received was rather helpful in tamping down that hope.  
  
Frankly, his facade was so poorly put together that he was sure John was going to see through it. And now he was utterly screwed.  
  
—  
  
Two months after Sherlock’s reentrance into life, Mycroft had shown up at 221B unannounced.  
  
“Sherlock, upon revealing yourself to the public you agreed to both myself and multiple other high government officials that you would answer questions and prove yourself innocent. Lying around your flat in your dressing gown is precisely not doing that,” he insisted, fingers curling agitatedly around the handle of his umbrella.  
  
“And what do you expect me to do?” Sherlock drawled, turning on to his stomach and shoving his face in the couch cushions. His voice was muffled when he spoke again. “You haven’t organised any press conferences or interviews or god knows what else. I don’t see how some party-“  
  
“A party,” Mycroft interrupted, “with many esteemed men that would surely be good to have on your side.” The detective made an annoyed sound and huffed against the couch.  
  
“Sherlock, for once I agree with your brother,” John intervened, stepping into the room with a tray of tea. “You’re a complete mess because hardly anyone trusts enough to give you a case. You ought to do this.”  
  
” _Fine_ ,” the detective groaned, flopping over on to his back again. John set the tray on the coffee table and nudged Sherlock’s feet over so he could sit. “But you’re coming, too.”  
  
“What, why me? If anyone, you deserve to be tortured.”  
  
“Crucial to certain detail points in our little Moriarty fiasco. I need you along. Also, it will be dreadfully boring, I enjoy talking to you, and you’re good to have around for entertainment; you’re very fun to converse with when you’ve had your share of alcohol.” John rolled his eyes but Mycroft chipped in.  
  
“My brother’s first point is quite true,” he said. “You were a part of the entire scheme of things and having you along might keep him subdued. You can stop him insulting people to their faces.”  
  
“Alright,” the doctor agreed grudgingly. “We’ll both come. When is it?”  
  
“Thursday, seven o’clock. Try to be punctual.”  
  
—  
  
“Sherlock, are you ready to go? We’re already going to be late.”  
  
Sherlock mussed his curls in the mirror in the sitting room before making a noncommittal noise. “I have been for ten minutes. Maybe if you’d deigned to ask to get off work early like I suggested, you’d be as well.”  
  
John stepped into the sitting room, fiddling with his cuffs as he went. “I told you I already asked,” he said in exasperation. “And that my request was denied, and that you should be near ready by the time I got back, but you opted to lie around the flat like you always do, forcing us to both try and get ready within a half hour stretch. I blame you.”  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned to rebut but found his jaw unable to work through words. Now he recalled, he didn’t remember ever seeing John looking so dapper before; his narrow-lapelled suit (new, bought for the occasion) was fitted quite nicely, clinging attractively to either side of his torso and hanging squarely off his shoulders. The ensemble gave him the illusion of looking taller than he was, though when Sherlock loomed around him he still didn’t compare.  
  
“Oh, have I triggered the Sherlock Holmes off switch?” the doctor asked incredulously, quirking a brow. Sherlock snapped his mouth shut and gave him a narrow eyed glare.  
  
“Blame who you like,” he said, voice strained at first but quickly evening out, “either way, we’re late.”  
  
John stared at him a moment before replying. “Right,” he muttered. “Grab your coat, I’ll be just another minute.” Sherlock scoffed because it sounded as though John were giving instructions to a child but complied nonetheless. He had to swallow hard and kick himself when he found himself staring at the doctor’s arse as he bent over to grab his coat off the couch.  
  
—  
  
The party was extremely dull, which left far too much time for Sherlock to think without interruption. Normally he would have been glad for this but he now couldn’t stop himself sweeping his eyes over John every minute or so. The doctor attempted to make conversation with him, only receiving one word replies and uninterested noises. He’d resorted to having a drink.  
  
Some man (something in the government, judging by the price and style of his suit) had come up and started talking with Sherlock, and to his utter dismay John found that the opportune time to give a little wave and leave them alone.  
  
“… Quite a remarkable feat, Mr. Holmes, and for such good reason, very humbling of you.”  
  
“Mm, wasn’t it?” the detective replied with a huff, glancing around in search of John. He spotted him over by the bar, watching some people dance with a drink in his hand, and straightened up. He cleared his throat. “My apologies, sir,” he said in his best ‘polite’ voice. “I’ve just spotted my date alone over there, really must get back to him.”  
  
The man’s eyes widened slightly - he had clearly thought John was just another someone speaking with him - but he composed himself. “By all means, Mr. Holmes.” Sherlock nodded at him and flashed a fake smile before before striding over and abruptly shooting John an annoyed glare.  
  
“Have fun?”  
  
“I despise you.”  
  
The doctor giggled quietly, his third glass of alcohol starting to take effect. Sherlock didn’t care what it was but he needed a drink so he snatched the glass out of John’s hand and downed the last of it.  
  
“Oi, get your own,” John muttered, elbowing him in the side playfully.  
  
“I do not understand how people do this,” the detective groaned. “How is this in the least enjoyable?”  
  
“Well, most people bring a date, yeah?” John pointed out. “Someone they actually enjoy talking to.” He paused a moment and flushed pink when he recalled what Sherlock had said earlier in the week. Despite himself, Sherlock did as well.  
  
“Right,” he mumbled, looking away quickly. Now he’d let down his defences, but… What was the harm, really? He’d seen John looking at him, just as the detective had been doing all evening, since before he was forced to fake his death. Sherlock valued their friendship, of course, but there was no denying he was interested in more. He’d been reminded of that too much that evening. He realised that he was still standing somewhat awkwardly in empty space so he stepped forward and set John’s drink on the bar, then turned and leant against it himself.  
  
John was still staring almost fixedly at the people dancing, and feeling extremely awkward. He could feel the blush was still present on his face and there was no way in hell the detective hadn’t noticed it - all he could hope was that Sherlock was too much of an idiot on the matter to figure out what triggered it. The past two months had been something of a challenge for him; before Sherlock killed himself, before all the Moriarty shit they’d been through, he’d been able to shove away his affection for the detective fairly well, focus on immersing himself in their cases and retaining their friendship. There was something rather special about being Sherlock’s only friend and he didn’t want to toss it away in place of something he was sure Sherlock didn’t want. Losing him, however, had broken him. Truthfully, it had - he’d grown so attached to his mad flatmate and, caution thrown to the wind here, he was in love with him. It had taken all his willpower not to tackle Sherlock against the wall and snog him mindless when he’d shown back up. He had a good deal of pent up anger, though, so he opted for something Sherlock had deserved equally as much.  
  
The detective was staring out into the crowd of people as well, watching absentmindedly as the couples smiled and laughed with each other, moving around to the music.  
  
Well. That was an idea.  
  
He glanced at John through his peripherals, still silent and somewhat pink, and quite endearingly embarrassed. With a purse of his lips, he let his arms fall from their position crossed over his chest so they were by his sides. He was close enough that his right hand brushed up against John’s left and remained doing so. Sherlock smirked at the blush reinstating itself across his doctor’s cheeks, but he was somewhat annoyed. He hadn’t moved his hand away, touching John’s, but he was still looking ahead with an embarrassed expression. He wasn’t catching the idea. With a slow breath, Sherlock snaked his fingers in between John’s.  
  
John stiffened and turned to face him quickly. “You-“  
  
“Yes,” the detective mumbled, frowning as a blush crawled up his own neck, body betraying him. “Despite constant denial. Don’t pretend you thought I couldn’t tell for you, either.” A smile twitched the corner of his lips up as a wide, crooked grin spread over John’s face.

“I figured you could,” he said somewhat sheepishly. “I just didn’t think… but you do.”

“I do.”

“And you want to pursue it?”

There was a moment of pause in which Sherlock pursed his lips and made a final decision. He squeezed John’s hand lightly. “Clearly.”

The doctor went to say something again but Sherlock cut him off by tugging him forward and away from the bar. The song playing had changed and made the situation opportune, so he swept John over and wrapped his slender arms around the doctor’s waist, pulling him close. He gave him a minute to figure out what was going on and smiled when John’s arms encircled him in return. The detective waited to find the proper beat before slowly moving them to it, leaning down to nuzzle against John’s forehead.

“Didn’t know you could dance,” John said. 

Sherlock hummed, amused. “This is hardly dancing,” he pointed out. “Though I ought to show you some time just how much I excel at it.”

John chuckled airily and traced a circle into the small of his back. “I think I’ll take you up on that.” 


	2. Trivial

  
The fact that Sherlock had stopped replying to texts was trivial. Common, usual - the detective bored of waiting for John to type out his reply, juggling the conversation and his patients and paperwork made for particularly delayed responses. He couldn’t be coaxed into retrieving his phone once he’d abandoned it on the desk or the floor or the kitchen table. Wherever he felt like setting it down was too far away. 

The silent flat above wasn’t much concern. There were a multitude of reasons Sherlock wouldn’t be making sound. His coat and scarf were still lying on the banister where he’d left them, his shoes lined up against the wall by Mrs. Hudson - bless her and her patience. Sherlock had carelessly toed them off and left them on the floor upon entering before jogging upstairs. He could be experimenting or looking through the blog. In his mind palace. Sulking. No gunshots yet - so far, so good.  

The seemingly empty sitting room - only upon first glance - was a bit more worrying. John furrowed his brow as he stepped in and did a perfunctory scan before turning and heading into the kitchen. Clear of consulting detectives and man-children alike. He couldn’t see any brand new experiments brewing, either. Still completely quiet.

“Sherlock?” John called tentatively, stepping back out into the sitting room. Their last case was three days ago and it hadn’t done much for him; he seemed utterly disappointed halfway through. Immediately after, they had returned home and the detective had fallen on to the couch and stared at the ceiling. Not lost in thought - sulking already. John had woken up the next morning and come down to find he hadn’t moved. It was highly unlikely that he was sleeping, though, god knows the man could be hiding under his bed and he’d have a good reason. There still wasn’t a rustle of movement in the flat. 

Only when he sent a text  _(You haven’t run out of the house in your dressing gown again, have you?)_  did he see the detective - or, rather, hear him.

There was a muffled buzz of phone against the hardwood floor to John’s left about ten seconds after he sent the text, and the fact struck him that Sherlock wouldn’t leave his phone. When he followed the sound with his eyes he finally found the detective. 

He was curled into a foetal ball on his right side, blue dressing gown drawn around the lanky legs clutched to his chest, facing the window. As John walked over to him slowly he could see that his hair was mussed ridiculously and the fingers of his left arm were tapping against the floor incessantly. The doctor was about to walk away and let him continue to sulk until he saw that Sherlock was trembling. And then, John realised that this was Sherlock trying to control a manic episode without a case.

“Shit,” he mumbled, stepping forward and getting down on the ground. He crawled forward on his hands and knees until he was at the detective’s back hovering over him with concern. 

“Sherlock,” he said carefully. “Come on, get up off the floor.”

Sherlock made an impatient noise and his fingers stopped tapping, curling into a loose fist. 

“I know,” the doctor replied, slowly lifting a hand. It cautiously settled on the detective’s side and he tensed but didn’t pull away. “I know this is hard but you can get over it, yeah?”

“It. Never. Stops.” Sherlock hissed, fist clenching until his skin was stretched across his bones. He was shaking a bit more now. “I. Can’t. Turn. It. Off.”

“You can’t help it, I know,” John assured quickly. Best to stay on his… Half-decent side. “I know. Please let me help you.”

“You can’t help!” Sherlock exclaimed. He was suddenly moving, on his feet and pushing past John, who had fallen backwards in surprise. “It never stops, never stops  _racing_ , NEVER. CALMS. DOWN.” He was pacing furiously now, kitchen door to coffee table to armchair and around again. 

John scrambled up to his feet and took a deep breath, determined to stay calm. Sherlock couldn’t help this, couldn’t help how he was acting because of it. No reason to be angry with him. 

“Sherlock, I know it’s hard to subdue-“

“IT’S IMPOSSIBLE!” The detective shouted, slamming both fists against the wall next to the kitchen. He pressed his head against it and tried to steady his breathing. “I NEED A CASE, I NEED THE DRUGS!”

“No, you don’t,” John said quickly, stepping forward and holding his hands out, palm forward. Like he was trying to hold back a feral animal.  _Close enough_ , he thought. “Sherlock, there are other ways of dealing with-“

“Oh, god, yes, so many ways!” the detective snarled, spinning around and turning on his doctor. “So many ways to calm the endless buzzing of my mind, are there, John?”

“Don’t,” John warned, taking a step forward. “Don’t turn this on me.”

“You would go batshit insane if you were stuck with it,” Sherlock said anyway. “The constant humming, buzzing, unable to stop the noise for twenty seconds and have a moment of quiet. To  _subdue_  without the assistance of drugs or epinephrine.”

“Sherlock, don’t make this about me!” the doctor ordered firmly, placing a hand on Sherlock’s chest. “You’re pushing this away from yourself and I’m just trying to help you.”

“YOU CAN’T HELP!” He yelled, throwing his hands up in exasperation. He brought them back down and ruffled his hair madly, adding to the already crazy mess there.

“I can,” John replied steadily, taking a tentative half-step forward. “I can help, you don’t need-“

“I do-“

“You don’t!” John insisted, stepping again. “You just need to calm down. You’ve too much energy and you can’t get it out because you don’t have a case.” He brought his other hand up to rest on the detective’s arm. “But if I let you run out and do something stupid, you could get hurt, so I’m not going to.”

Sherlock clenched his jaw, ground his teeth together once, and took a deep breath. “I need-“

“You don’t,” the doctor interrupted quietly. He was close now, having been carefully manoeuvring forward whilst talking. John looked up at Sherlock imploringly, head tilted, and silently pled for him to comply. “Let me help you,” he muttered eventually.

The detective finally met John’s gaze and his own visage softened considerably, a sort of liveliness rushing back into his eyes. John sighed in relief and pulled Sherlock forward, wrapping his arms around that slim frame and holding him tightly. Sherlock pressed his face into the doctor’s hair and inhaled shakily, letting his own arms come up to grasp him helplessly, hold him like his life depended on it.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“S’not your fault,” John said with relief, burying his face in the detective’s neck. He pressed a kiss to the pale skin there and rubbed Sherlock’s back. “Not terrible, see? Good. Alright, now, do you want some tea?”

“No,” Sherlock replied immediately. 

“Sherlock.”

“Yes,” he muttered with a smile. “Why do you bother to ask if you know the answer?”

“Because if I don’t, you don’t drink it.” John smiled and pulled back, arms still around the detective. He pushed up on his toes to kiss him softly before smiling again and walking to the kitchen. 

—

Lying in bed, John listened to the rustling about in the kitchen just outside the door, of Sherlock working an experiment he’d managed to pull together. Now he found something to occupy him he wouldn’t come to bed, but John was glad nonetheless. He plucked his phone off the side table and tapped out a message. 

_You did well today._

A reply came less than a minute later. 

_Yes, well, you helped. SH_

_I’m happy to hear it._

No more texts came, so he sent another. 

_Just wondering, but why didn’t you?_

_I’m not a mind reader, John, we’ve been over this. Be more specific. SH_

_Why didn’t you go out, get the drugs?_

_You said the last time that you would leave if I did. SH_

_That was enough to stop you?_

_Clearly. I need you around more than a one-shot stimulant. SH_

_Do you?_

_Yes, yes milk it all you want, feel pleased with yourself. SH_

_It was a legitimate question._

There was a long pause before his phone buzzed again. 

_Don’t remember, do you? Well, I’ve said it once and I hate repetition. Do tell me if you figure it out. SH_

John just shook his head and set the phone down on the bed. The fact that Sherlock expected him to remember something that had probably been undeniably vague or said at a time he knew John wouldn’t remember was ridiculous. Still, as he started drifting to sleep he replayed conversations with the detective in his mind, eyes fluttering shut as he was lulled by small noises from the next room. 

Just as he was about to fall asleep he remembered. One instance, years ago, when they were just getting into the Moriarty shit and their lives were still intact. _I’d be lost without my blogger_. John had figured he’d been being sarcastic at the time, and possibly he was, but there was an underlying meaning to it. He smiled and picked his phone up, half-drunk with exhaustion. 

_I’d be lost without you, too, you great git. I have been, remember?_

_Go to sleep. SH_

_I love you._

_I know. SH_


	3. Bad Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Anonymous requested some Johnlock kisses - something I'm always willing to write!**

John trudged up the stairs slowly, the weight of his day heavy on his shoulders. Today had been a Day. One of those Days where he woke up and immediately thought,  _“today will_ not _be a good day.”_

It hadn’t been particularly rotten, but it wasn’t pleasant at all. He had been late for work because he overslept, though he couldn’t say he regretted the previous nights events - they, after all, had been the cause of his blissful exhaustion. Falling asleep with Sherlock curled around him always made waking up a challenge, especially when he was entirely spent.

A rather large rainstorm picked up sometime in the late morning and made John’s leg ache quite profoundly, and, because of his luck, he had an unusually exuberant amount of patients so he was on his feet all day. Harry called him sometime around lunch, drunk off her mind, and refused to stop calling until he listened to her, which created quite a scene in the cafe at which he was eating.

Possibly the most annoying event was the most cliché. When he finally managed to hail a cab to get home, it had actually driven right into a puddle of the earlier day’s rainwater and soaked the bottom half of his trousers, finishing the unfortunate series of events that was his day.

When he got up to the sitting room it was empty, though it wasn’t uninhabited. The detective’s coat was still hung up and his shoes were present, so clearly Sherlock was around somewhere. The doctor didn’t feel up to searching for him, so he shuffled like a zombie to the kitchen and started the kettle. He left it to heat and stepped into the room he shared with Sherlock, then toed off his shoes and stripped of his half-sodden trousers. He picked up the nearest pair of pyjama pants - which happened to be Sherlock’s - and pulled them on, wiggling his feet until the excess cloth was up around his ankles and he could walk without tripping.

He padded back out into the kitchen and smiled. Sherlock had appeared and was pouring steaming water into a pair of mugs, each set to their designated drinker’s specifics.

“Bad day?” the detective questioned with a glance that can’t have lasted more than a second.

“Pray tell, how  _did_ you know?” John asked with a roll of his eyes and a grin.

“Mm, you’re an easy read.” The detective grinned slyly and set the kettle back down, turning to face his doctor. He canted a brow in inquiry, like he was asking how long it was going to take John to come over. The doctor smiled and submitted, stepping forward to slip his arms around Sherlock’s slim waist and nestle against his shoulder.

Sherlock returned the embrace gladly, taking John in a firm, comforting hold. The doctor could feel the stress melting from his form as he breathed in the odd, mixed but fitting scent of his partner. After a moment, he nudged his nose up against Sherlock’s jaw and crept up to his tiptoes. The detective leant downward and slid their lips together softly, hugging John to his chest to keep him up on his toes.

John pulled away just the slightest to mumble, “s’not so bad anymore,” against Sherlock’s lips with a small smile and kissed him again.


	4. Pining

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **weird-bird-headingnorth** requested Sherlock having to observe John and Mary (Post-Reichenbach).

“We had a deal, you snivelling little  _rat_!”

The compromise was that when Sherlock finished off a branch of the web, Mycroft allowed him access to the CCTV cameras.  

“A few things have transpired since you’ve last seen him!” the elder Holmes retaliated, fighting Sherlock back and away from the door. 

The problem was that Sherlock slipped frequently into dark moods, in which he could hardly be coaxed to eat, sleep, or work. So, it took him ages to finish off each branch and be able to see John. 

“You would have told me if it were something critical!” the detective hissed, trying to push forward. “Let me through!”

And John had taken those ages to move on. 

“Sherlock, stop acting like a five year old and listen to me!”

But Sherlock didn’t know. 

Mycroft gave his brother a final, hard shove backwards and straightened out his suit jacket. 

“I’ll stop acting like a child when you cease to live under the delusion that you’re the father figure,” Sherlock snarled. “Why, Mycroft, is it ever so important that I not see the man for which this is all being done? I’ve held up my end of the deal - stop acting like you truly do belong to the government and let me see him.”

Despite his angry tone, Mycroft could see the desperation in his eyes. More than anything, at that moment Mycroft felt sad. Moriarty had affected both Sherlock and John with the final step to his plan, but things panned out differently than one would imagine. 

John had healed, but Sherlock had not. 

Having grown accustomed to having John by his side, the detective was deteriorating. Pining after a man he couldn’t be with, a man who thought him deceased. He had no one to rattle off deductions to, no one to make him eat or force him to go to bed. No one to laugh or argue with or complain to. And he was trying hard to return as soon as possible. 

“Sherlock, you aren’t listening to me,” Mycroft said, forcing his voice calm. “It’s been a long time since you’ve last seen him.”

“Is he hurt?” the detective demanded. 

“No-“

“Then I’ll be fine.” Sherlock finally pushed him aside and walked into the control room. It was easy enough to guess where John was - Sherlock didn’t even need the GPS. Going by the hour and the day - late afternoon, Sunday - he would be at the flat. Simple. 

The detective moved immediately to the small corner of screens that held footage from Baker Street. What he saw appalled him. 

“Empty,” he whispered. Mycroft stepped up beside him and nodded. “It’s empty, Mycroft.”

“I tried to warn you,” the elder Holmes said quietly. His tone was near pitying.

“Warn me of what?” Sherlock said through clenched teeth.

“He’s moved out, Sherlock. Moved on. He’s married, he has a child. He’s healed.” Mycroft leant forward and hit a few keys. The screens changed to view a new flat.

There was John. He was seated on a plush looking sofa, smiling, sitting next to a woman. Blonde hair reached down to her shoulders and she was wearing glasses from what Sherlock could see. She was leaning against the doctor, head nestled on his shoulder, legs tucked up on the couch. He said something and she laughed, then leant up to kiss him. 

The detective stiffened and his fingers curled around the edge of the table, pressing hard until his knuckles were dead white. His face remained neutral but his body language proved otherwise, and Mycroft could read the emotions flooding his brother’s mind. And he could see that Sherlock was heartbroken. 


	5. You Aren't Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Anonymous** requested John hallucinating (Post Reichenbach).

At first, it’s just a shadow. A flicker in his peripherals, a corner of black Belstaff flapping around a wall, a low chortle hardly audible in the rushing of London. It’s just the slightest memory, a bit of his imagination toying with him. And he can ignore it, pass it off as grief and depression, the refusal to forget him. And that’s okay.

The whispering starts up during work. He’s trying to listen to his patient, an elderly woman worried about her leg. Trick knee, that was it. But he’s drifting in and out; hasn’t slept properly in weeks now. Too much avoidance - the nightmares are frequent as ever, and his mind is vivid with colours. The blood is cherry red and Sherlock’s eyes are dead white, his scarf is vibrant blue. It twists knots in his chest and he can’t deal with the dreams, so he naps on the couch, uncomfortable enough to draw him back from the edge and stop the REM periods. He feels like absolute shite.

The woman, Mrs… oh, god, what was her name? He can’t remember now. He shakes his head and tries to listen again, her voice wavering in his ears like a radio being tuned. And in the white noise of her droning voice he’s jolted by a rolling whisper.

_“… Is what I have, alone protects…”_

John gasps and stiffens and the woman is in front of him suddenly. His vision is blurred because he’s let his eyes unfocus, staring at nothing for too long.

_“… Obvious, isn’t it?”_

“Doctor Watson?” she questions, leaning down and trying to capture his attention. “Doctor Watson, are you alright?” She’s swimming in and out of clarity and John forces his eyes to sharpen and tries to steady his breathing.

_“It must be so boring.”_

“I- I’m sorry,” he breathes, shaking his head. “No, I need- need to go. I’ll have Dr. Sawyer come look at you, I’m terribly sorry Mrs…”

“Cabren,” she informs him.

“Right. Mrs. Cabren. Sorry, I’m… I’m a bit off today.” He nods and stands, gives her a sorry look, shakes her hand and walks out unsteadily.

John leans against the wall in the hallway, rubbing his forehead. Now it’s over he’s sure he was overreacting. Not enough sleep. He probably started nodding off and the dreams began flooding his head. He feels ridiculous now, but the patient’s seen him in this state and he can’t go back.

As he walks down the hall it feels crowded. Suddenly claustrophobic. And then he can almost feel breath on his ear that accompanies the deep purr he was sure was just beside him.

_“You know my methods.”_

John spins around with wide eyes like a madman and trips over his own foot, landing on his arse in the hallway. He looks around frantically and swallows, breathing heavily again. Like he can’t get enough oxygen.

“John!” Sarah rushes over to him. He hadn’t realised she was there. Must have seen him fall. She’s trying to talk to him but he’s still searching for a tall figure clad in black. 

“John, can you hear me?” Sarah’s voice finally cuts in and he nods absently, turning his head to look up at her. She’s crouching beside him looking terribly worried and reaching out as if to touch his shoulder but not making any actual contact.

“I need to go home,” he chokes out, and she agrees. He’s frighteningly pale and there’s a sheen of sweat on his forehead. “Mrs… Mrs…” He’s forgotten his patient’s name again. “My patient is still-“

“I’ll deal with her,” she assures. She finally touches him, holding her other hand out as well now, to help him up. He takes it in a daze and does his best to push to his feet.

“I’m- Ah, sorry,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m… off. Not-” He cuts off when he thinks he sees Sherlock, though the detective fades from view moments after he shows up. Still, if possible, he’s gone even more pale and Sarah turns around as well.

“Do you need help getting home?” she asks, returning her attention to the doctor.

“Taxi,” John mutters. He lets out a shaky breath. “I’ll get a taxi.” He squeezes his eyes shut but it does him no good because the black is a canvas for unwelcome images. He opens them back up and he can feel wet tracks on his face. And now she knows. He can see on her face that she’s figured it out.

“John, have you been to your therapist?” Sarah inquires cautiously. “Have you told her-“

“I’m fine,” he says in a broken voice. “I’m fine I just… Sleep, I need sleep.” His voice sounds like a sob and he looks like a wreck, but he tears from her grasp. “I’ll be back in the morning.” And he’s ashamed of himself. Of his head, for conjuring up spectres that break him like this. “I’ll be back, I just… I need sleep.”

He stumbles backwards, away from Sarah, and shakes his head again. She considers going after him as he turns and rushes out, but there’s a patient waiting so she hopes to hell he makes it home without tripping into busy road.

John gets outside and manages to steady himself. Home. He needs to get home, he needs to lie down. He needs to get these images out of his head. Plan of action; find a taxi. He can hear Sherlock’s deep voice in a bellowing call for a cab and it feels like the wind is knocked out of him. He can’t find his voice to call a cab so he turns and scans the people before him.

A pleasant looking man is standing nearby, calmly waiting for a cab to pass by. John shuffles over to him and does his best to breathe, trying to force his voice through the lump in his throat.

“I- I need- Can you please-” he sputters. He reaches up and wipes the moisture from his face, the tears still falling steadily, and the man looks horrified. “Cab- Can you get me a cab?” he manages, tone broken and desperate and pleading.

“Of course,” the man says, nodding hurriedly. He puts a hand on John’s arm and it feels good. A nice stranger. Who’d have thought? All the strangers in John’s past have tried to kill him.

“Thank you,” he breathes, burying his face in his hands. He’s having some kind of mental episode and he feels like an idiot, but it’s too much for him. The man steps forward as a taxi passes by and to their luck it pulls up to the curb. The man ushers John toward it and the doctor goes, leaning into the window.

“Baker Street,” he chokes out, reaching for the handle of the door. The man who hailed the cab is stepping toward him, holding something out. Money. Cab fare.

“I can pay,” John assures, pushing it back at him. “Thank you- god, thank you,” he says, collapsing into the seat. The man nods and gives a worried wave as the door shuts and they pull away. John puts his head between his knees as they head toward home.

When he steps into the foyer he feels like the world is tilting and all he wants to do is pass out and sleep for days, for the dreams to stop haunting him enough that he’s granted with rest, just tonight. He trips up the stairs and leans heavily against the door of 221B, trying to quell the trembling in his limbs. He stopped crying in the cab at some point. The cabbie kept glancing at him like he might pass out or throw up or go on a rampage. 

John pushes the door to the flat open and goes inside cautiously. Afraid of things he’ll see. It’s clear, so he shuts the door behind him and toes off his shoes. He wants tea. He  _needs_ tea, so he moves in the direction of the kitchen. He hears a second pair of feet shuffle against the hardwood floor and this time he’s ready for it. He turns around when he reaches the stove.

“You aren’t here,” the doctor says.

“Aren’t I?” Sherlock questions, looking around. “It looks like I’m here.”

“You’re made up,” John counters. His voice is watered with new tears. “My head’s messed up and I can see you but you aren’t real.”

“Oh. I see.” The detective sounds almost disappointed. Like he truly wished he were real. “How do you know?”

“Because you weren’t here a moment ago. And your eye is missing.”

Sherlock lifts his hand to brush over the pale, flat skin where his right eye ought to be and frowns. “That’s concerning.”

“Get out,” John demands. “Go away, GET OUT!”

The doctor grabs the nearest object - a mug - and hurls it in Sherlock’s direction. His image dissipates before the mug can hit him and it instead crashes into the wall and shatters. 


	6. Don't Leave

The drugs, Sherlock knew, were not the best solution. In fact, in his predicament they were the worst solution, but he was being driven to madness at that point. No cases, no stimulation for over two weeks and he was strung out, jittery, and he needed something. And John was at work - the stimulant would wear off by the time he got off. 

Just a few hours. He needed at least one goddamned hour of silence up there or he was going to start running rampant. 

And so he did. And it felt bloody fantastic. Until John stepped in the door early.

The doctor eyed Sherlock, lying on the sofa in a dazed state, eyes shut, fingers of his right arm pressed to a spot just below the crook of his left elbow. No nicotine patches. No wrung out screaming or shouting that had been pushing them both further away from each other. He was calm, and that was concerning. 

“Sherlock,” he said, stepping forward. Now he could see a syringe on the floor by the couch and his anger was bubbling up quickly. “You haven’t. Goddamit; Sherlock tell me you have gone and-“

“Yes,” Sherlock mumbled. His tone was neutral but there was a smile curling at the corner of his smug fucking mouth and John lost control. 

“Fucking hell, Sherlock!” he yelled, kicking the needle away. “We have been  _over_  this! Why the fuck would-“

“Needed to stop,” the detective said simply. “Too much time without a case, too much racing; too many thoughts.”

“So you got high. After I told you I don’t condone this, that I wouldn’t stand to see you deteriorate?!”

“I’m fine!” Sherlock countered, finally lazily opening his eyes. “If anything, I’ve just stopped myself deteriorating!” His pupils were blown scarily wide - like his bright irises weren’t ever there. Like some demon had possessed him. 

“No, Sherlock, I don’t mean in sanity, I mean in health, because god knows you’ve already lost your mind!” John brought a hand up to his head and ran it through his hair. 

He was tired of this. He was so goddamned tired of this. 

When Sherlock returned, he came back re-acquainted with his drug addiction. At the time, John had been too mixed up in his emotions to be terribly upset about it. He had said he would help him stop, help him get off the habit. And the detective did well at first - the withdrawals were tricky but he pushed through them. But cases were sparse due to the way Sherlock had parted with the world and it was affecting him. John could see it, how he wanted to go back to the cocaine. And so he had warned him, months and months before they made their partnership official, that he wasn’t going to have it. Sherlock had agreed, had said it wouldn’t happen. And now it was. 

“John, I’m perfectly aware of how much my body can handle and therefore the danger to myself is-“

“Still extremely high!” John interrupted. “Sherlock, I told you, I let you know almost seven months ago that I wasn’t going to have this and now you’ve deliberately-“

“Are you aware you’re speaking to me as though I’m not a competent human being?” Sherlock snarled, swinging his legs off the couch and standing. He loomed over his partner and glared down at him. The squinting of his eyes made his irises vanish entirely and caused John to take a step back.

Sherlock looked a complete mess. In addition to the eyes, his hair was wild. His shirt was off kilter; buttons undone, hanging at a strange angle, sleeve on his right arm all the way down but the left rolled up past his elbow. He was, however, still completely capable of biting back. 

“I am an extremely intelligent human being, John, you are aware, and I’ve been doing  _this_  for longer than I can remember. I. Am. Perfectly. Fine.” 

John gaped up at him for a moment before snapping his mouth shut. “I’m not doing this,” he whispered. He cleared his throat and spoke up. “I’m not dealing with you like this, Sherlock. We can talk in the morning, but I’ll let you know that I… I don’t know how this is going to work out. I warned you and you went ahead and did this anyway. I’m not going to watch you kill yourself. It’s going to hurt me, but I think you need a reality check.” He grabbed Sherlock’s trembling hand and took his pulse. He seemed assured that the detective was fine. “Not staying here tonight. Have fun.” The doctor shook his head and turned around, then walked out the door of the flat. It was quiet. 

After the door shut downstairs, Sherlock realised what John had meant. Not going to work out. Them, they weren’t going to work out, John was going to leave. John was leaving now, why the hell did he let John get out the bloody door?! The detective sat down on the sofa. Very suddenly he felt as though the drugs had dropped out of his system, and there was a tight panic in his chest. God, no, he’d done it this time. 

The detective leant forward and put his elbows on his knees, and his hands on either side of his head. 

“Sherlock?” Mrs. Hudson was in the doorway and the detective shut his eyes quickly. “Is everything alright? John’s just run out. He didn’t look very-“

“No, Mrs. Hudson. Nothing is alright. I’ll manage it.” He could hear a waver in his tone and he decided the drugs must affect his emotional filter. 

“Oh, dear,” she said with a frown. “I’m sorry, Sherlock.”

“Thank you. I’d like to be alone if you wouldn’t mind.” There was a quiet pause, and then the squeak of the broken stair as Mrs. Hudson descended. 

Sherlock exhaled heavily. He said he’d manage it, mostly for himself. He needed to fix this - it wasn’t an option. And he knew the only way to do it. He nodded to himself, as if for confirmation, and stood. 

There was something on his face, some odd moisture, and he frowned. He lifted his hand to touch the skin of his cheek, then up to his eye. Oh. Of course. He hadn’t even noticed. 

He didn’t bother to button up his shirt. The detective grabbed his coat and his scarf, his supplies, and rushed out the door. 

—

John hesitated to return in the morning. God, he didn’t want to do this. He loved Sherlock, absolutely, there was no denying it. But his words rang completely true. He didn’t want to watch him kill himself over again. 

Greg hadn’t questioned when the doctor showed up the previous night. Honestly, he wondered why John didn’t pop over more often with someone like Sherlock as his partner. He offered the couch and gave him some tea, then went to bed. 

“Reluctant to go back?” Lestrade inquired, stepping in the room. John was sitting on the couch, fully clothed and wearing his coat and shoes. Ready to leave. He was staring up at the ceiling with a look like dread on his face. 

“You don’t have half a clue,” he replied. His tone was miserable, though, not sarcastic as it was when he was annoyed with Sherlock, and Lestrade became concerned. 

“Is everything alright between you two?” he asked cautiously. He tried to avoid digging into their personal lives, but he hadn’t seen John like this since the detective killed himself. 

“No,” John admitted. “It’s not. But- Well, I’m not giving any details. I can… Handle this.”

Lestrade pursed his lips. “Mate, I don’t think you can. You like you did when he-“

“Don’t,” John warned. The DI nodded and retreated. “Okay. I should go. Got to get it over with.”

“My couch is always open,” Lestrade said. John gave a small smile and a nod, then stood.  

“Thanks Greg.” He walked out and forced his breathing steady, then hailed a cab.

When he got back to the flat, the noiselessness of it upset him. Sherlock’s shoes were missing from the foyer. John replaced them with his own. He swallowed hard and walked upstairs. The sitting room was abandoned, as he thought. Bloody wonderful. The doctor sank down into the sofa cushions at the same time the door downstairs banged open. 

John jumped to his feet on instict. To steady himself, maybe, to be ready to finish it all. He could already feel a lump forming in his throat. 

The detective rushed into the sitting room, coat falling off his shoulders as he headed straight for John - he’d seen his shoes downstairs, then. Knew he’d come back. 

“Sherlock, I-” Sherlock cut him off by taking his face in his hands and pressing their lips together, hard. John made an attempt at protesting but the detective continued at it until the doctor’s lips were pliant against his own. John’s mind commanded him to part his lips against Sherlock’s and he did, melting into the kiss - but, no, no he was supposed to be telling him off.

The doctor shoved Sherlock away from him and wiped off his mouth. “Sherlock, Jesus fuck, have you completely forgot-“

“I tossed it in the Thames,” the detective interrupted. John tilted his head questioningly and Sherlock explained. “My syringe, my drugs - bottom of the river.”

“That’s where you’ve been?” the doctor asked quietly. Sherlock nodded and tentatively stepped forward. He still looked like as much of a wreck as he had last night, but the bright blue-grey of his irises was restored and there were dark circles under his eyes. His shirt was still undone and John figured that if it weren’t for his coat he would have gotten pneumonia. “All night?”

“I went immediately after you left,” Sherlock muttered. “And tossed them in the river. But then I ended up wandering aimlessly around the city.” 

John could see how nervous the detective was - fidgeting, biting at the inside of his lip. “You’re an idiot,” the doctor whispered with a sad smile. “You’re the biggest bloody dolt I’ve ever met.”

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock mumbled. He slipped his arms around his partner and frowned. “I… Need you. Need you more than the drugs. You know this.”

“I know,” the doctor agreed, leaning into him. He pressed his face against Sherlock’s bare chest and sniffled. “And you know I don’t want to leave.”

“Does that mean you’re still going to?” There was a slight of panic in his tone and John finally returned the embrace, hugging Sherlock tightly to him.

“No,” John mumbled. “Not this time.”

“I love you,” the detective muttered into his hair.

“I love you, too. Moron.” Sherlock chuckled softly. “And thank you. For doing what you did.”

“Thank you for staying.”


	7. Take the Blame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this at four in the morning. Your argument is invalid.

John often had a difficult time remembering how his fights with Sherlock began. They were often about the most trivial things one could imagine - the detective left his clothes everywhere and made a mess of every clean surface he came in contact with. He was loud sometimes and silent others - to the point of yelling at the top of his lungs or not speaking for days. 

Today, however, was a top-of-the-lungs day.

“ONE SIMPLE INSTRUCTION, JOHN! DO NOT GO NEAR THE EXPERIMENT!” he shouted, throwing his arms up in aggravation. “Even  _Anderson_  has a high enough competency level to know not to go near it!”

“You left it in the bloody sink!” John spat back. “I don’t care if it was for a goddamned case, we do have to have a sanitary kitchen in order to  _eat_  despite your thinking that if you don’t want food, you don’t need it!”

“I can last without food, every human being can - I did, however, need that experiment to help single out the suspect, but because you disturbed it I won’t be able to get definite results for another three days!” The detective stormed out of the kitchen into the sitting room and snatched up his laptop, opening it and balancing it on one hand. He began to type something, what John imagined was an angry email to Lestrade.

“Oh, we’re going to blame me entirely, now?” John strode out after him and crossed him arms. “Because you aren’t to be yelled at for putting it in the sink instead of on the counter or the table?”

Sherlock ignored him, save a perfunctory roll of his eyes.

 ”Because Sherlock Holmes has to have his win when he knows he’s wrong,” John continued loudly, stepping forward. When Sherlock continued typing away on his computer without so much as a glance in the doctor’s direction, John reached forward and took it, shutting it with a loud snap.

“Give that back!” Sherlock growled, reaching quickly to take it from his flatmate’s hands. John stepped backward and tucked it tightly under his arm.

“Listen,” John said, taking a deep breath to steady his voice. “I’m not going to stand here and take all the blame for a problem that was three-fourths your fault.” Sherlock opened his mouth to protest but the doctor grabbed his collar and pulled him down to his level.

“I’m not letting you push me around,” he said calmly, staring at the detective. “We both fucked up, we both take the blame.”

“If you had just-” Sherlock began.

“Oh, for god’s sake, shut  _up_!” John exclaimed, unfisting the material of Sherlock’s collar and throwing his free arm up, exasperated. 

“Make me,” Sherlock dared, crossing his arms like a small child.

“Oh, do you really want me to?” John inquired.

“I don’t see how you’d be able to.”

The doctor huffed out a laugh. “Try me.”

“Go ahead.”

John raised a brow. “Y’know what? Fine,” he said. He tossed the laptop down on to the armchair, and as Sherlock’s started up some complaint, he took him by the collar again and crushed their lips together.

“Mpph - J-J-” Sherlock tried to protest. His hands fisted in the doctor’s jumper and he started weak attempts to push him away, but John moved to wrap his arms around the detective’s neck and hold him in place. Sherlock gave up after a moment and stopped all attempts at moving away, whereupon John let his arms fall and released him.

“Effective enough, I think,” the doctor muttered, wiping off his mouth with the back of his hand. “Makes breathing a bit difficult, though.”

The detective blinked, stunned, for a moment before clearing his throat. “Breathing’s boring,” Sherlock muttered. John tilted his head questioningly but his inquiry was answered when Sherlock reached out and pulled the doctor forward by his jumper, sealing their lips back together.


	8. Appendix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Anonymous** requested Sherlock and appendicitis.

John had started to notice something was off with Sherlock. The first indication was picked up one night - morning really, it was the ungodly hour of three a.m. and they were both still up  idling around the sitting room. John was on his computer, doing research the detective had ordered of him and Sherlock himself was pacing back and forth in front of the windows, muttering under his breath. John could hardly keep his eyes open, clicking about on different websites in search of - oh, god, what was it? He’d forgotten entirely what he was supposed to be looking for so he gave in and shut his laptop, leaning down to set it on the floor with a sigh.   
  
“Wait, what are you doing, have you found it?” the detective inquired hurriedly, spinning around to face him.   
  
“No, Sherlock, because I’ve forgotten what it is I was supposed to be researching,” John informed him, rubbing his eyes.   
  
“It was-“   
  
“-And, frankly, I don’t care. I haven’t slept more than five hours the past three days, and neither have you. This is a low-key case, it can wait until later today,” he interrupted with finality. The stern look on his face was enough to shut Sherlock up.   
  
“Very well,” he muttered. “In the morning then.”   
  
“Afternoon, at this rate.” The detective rolled his eyes but didn’t protest. A look of slight discomfort passed over him and he rubbed absentmindedly at his lower abdomen a moment. John felt concerned at first before just attributing it to the fact that he hadn’t eaten in over 48 hours and got up to go to bed.   
  
“If you wake me up before ten o’clock you’re going to find yourself in a painful position,” he quipped. “Try to sleep, or have something to eat - toast, maybe..” Sherlock flashed him an annoyed glare but nodded, still prodding experimentally around his right hip as John shuffled up to his room.   
  
—   
  
The next symptom of sorts was a bit more worrying, but nothing that seemed too bad. Sherlock, John, and Lestrade were crowded around a mangled body, two days after the first point of concern popped up. The detective was crouched beside it, absentmindedly listing off deductions aloud and flitting up and down the victim with his compact magnifying glass.   
  
“… Missing something, what are we missing?” he muttered angrily, snapping the plastic sleeves together in a fit. He pushed up off the ground to stand, but as he straightened out his breath left in a huff of pain and his hand grasped at his abdomen.   
  
  
“Sherlock, are you alright?” John questioned without missing a beat, stepping forward quickly.   
  
“Fine,” the detective breathed, clearing his throat in slight and forcing himself entirely upright. “Just bent at the wrong angle for too long, easy mistake.”   
  
Lestrade and John both raised an unsure brow, but Sherlock waved the entire occurance off in favour of ordering them to find the victim’s identification and, in turn, find her (they were nearly positive it was a woman, at least) medical and family history. John kept an eye on him the rest of the day, but the situation didn’t arise again until the next day and Sherlock just made another excuse and turned him away. Later on that evening, he noticed the detective was shivering a bit, even wrapped up in his dressing gown.   
  
—   
  
The third symptom was where John drew the line.   
  
Both men were back in the sitting room, John lying on the sofa whilst Sherlock flitted around to look at pictures and notes back and forth.   
  
He’d been eating less than usual (usual for Sherlock, at least) and John had noticed, unable to coax him into eating anything but a few plain pieces of bread and a bit of water over the past few days. The doctor had asked multiple times how he was feeling and if he could take a look at him just for his own sake, but the detective had fervently turned him down, returning to the samples of flesh under his microscope.   
  
“Connections, connections,” he hissed, sifting through papers at a speed that surely made it impossible for him to actually be looking them over. In a huff he tossed the handful of notes over his shoulder, causing them to flutter to the hardwood around his feet.   
  
“Oi, I’m not cleaning this mess up, so be prepared to do it yourself,” John informed him with a smirk, drawing his arms up to rest under his head and letting his eyes shut. Sherlock made a strangled, snarling sort of noise and pulled out his mobile, quickly tapping away at the keyboard and mumbling at the speed of light.   
  
“Do you want any help?” the doctor inquired. There was a sudden lack of angry mutterings and clicking of frantically pressed keys that made John quirk a brow and open his eyes. As he turned his head to regard his flatmate, there was a sudden clatter of phone against floor and Sherlock was gone with a swoosh of blue dressing gown. John stood quickly as the door to the toilet slammed shut and strode over, only to be greeted with the sound of his flatmate emptying whatever was actually in his stomach.   
  
“Sherlock?” he called through the door. “Hey, can I come in? I can help.”   
  
After a moment, the toilet flushed and the door swung back open. Sherlock emerged looking shaken, a light sheen of sweat covering the sickly pallor of his forehead.   
  
“I’m fine,” he stated, pushing past the doctor to walk to the couch on shaky legs.   
  
“Sherlock, you’re the epitome of ‘not fine’ and you’ve been so for days! I’m putting my foot down; you’re letting me have a look at you.” John crossed his arms adamantly and glowered down at the detective, who made an attempt to stare right back but a look came over him and he looked as though he may vomit again. The doctor hurriedly grabbed the bin next to their desk and handed it over to him, but he swallowed hard and managed to push the feeling back.   
  
“Lie down,” John demanded, sitting himself on the coffee table. With a small huff Sherlock finally gave in and lied back on the cushions, setting the bin on the floor by his head in case it was needed. “Untuck your shirt.” The detective did as ordered, pulling the material of his shirt up over his navel. John leant forward and down to examine the skin of his lower abdomen, skirting his fingers over the skin with featherlight touch. It was a flush pink, visibly swollen, and hot to the touch.   
  
“You’ve been experiencing discomfort, right? Don’t lie.”   
  
“Yes,” the detective confirmed hesitantly. He glanced down at John and shifted uncomfortably.   
  
“Don’t move,” the doctor said sternly. He pressed down lightly on Sherlock’s lower right stomach, inducing a hiss of pain. “Sherlock, have you deleted appendicitis?”   
  
“No, of course not,” Sherlock replied with a tone that implied he thought John was an idiot. “Inflammation of the-“   
  
“You don’t have to tell me, I know. But have you deleted the symptoms? Because you have all of them, and either you didn’t know it or you’re completely ignorant and rather stupid. I’m taking you to Bart’s.”   
  
—   
  
“Yeah it all went over fine. No surgical complications, no signs of necrosis or further infection.”   
  
“And he really had no clue that he had appendicitis?”   
  
“None at all,” John affirmed, flopping down on the sofa and repositioning his phone against his ear. “For a genius he’s the biggest idiot I’ve ever met.”   
  
“Sounds like a fun guy,” Harry jested. “He still asleep?”   
  
“Yes, but not for long, I imagine - the meds ought to be wearing off soon and he’ll be up and whining in no time.”   
  
“You’ve got a man-child for a flatmate, baby brother,” she laughed into the receiver. “Honestly, he’s the whiniest person I’ve ever met, how the hell do you deal with him?”   
  
“Well, I did live with you for sixteen years,” he quipped in return, drawing a snort of annoyance from his sister.   
  
“Hilarious. Alright, well, I’ll be over in a few hours with dinner for both of you.”   
  
“Thanks; I really do appreciate this. I’d get it myself but Mrs. Hudson is out and if I leave him alone he’s sure to-“   
  
There was a loud groan from the detective’s bedroom, followed by an anguished call of, “John!”   
  
“Speak of the devil,” the doctor sighed. “I’ve got to go.”   
  
“Message received. See you tonight, yeah?”   
  
“Yeah,” John confirmed, pushing off the couch in defeat. Sherlock called his name again and he huffed. “Harry, do me a favour and bring some beer along for me.”   
  
“I thought you had to take care of stringbean?”   
  
“Yeah, well, if I don’t have a bit of alcohol in my system I’m going to end up finishing the job the appendix couldn’t do.”


	9. Forgotten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Anonymous** requested 'Sherlock comes back and John doesn't remember him at all'.

 

Sherlock had waited before, as many people have. However, this was the most torturous thing he had yet endured, because he was sitting in an empty Baker Street flat, waiting for his former flatmate to return from work. So he could reveal himself as alive. He was prepared for an array of reactions; the most likely would be a strike to the face - John did have such a short temper - but following that up was a hug. Which the detective was more than willing to endeavor. Fainting was a possibility, as was a long string of curses. According to Mycroft, the doctor’s mental health after Sherlock had ‘died’ was a bit short of acceptable, so thoughts of his hallucinating was an option. The detective was ready for many, many scenarios; he had an explanation for each and a customised apology. And so he waited impatiently, pacing, muttering, looking at how things had changed.

It had been three hours by the time he heard the door downstairs open slowly. There was a quiet tapping of John’s cane against the hardwood, and a low grunt as he began ascending the stairs. Sherlock started fidgeting nervously; the speeches he had prepared fled his mind, and he was feeling frantic. 

The door to 221B opened and John limped in, stripped of his coat, tossed it on the couch, and turned straight for the kitchen.He hadn’t noticed the detective at all, so Sherlock remained quiet. John would need a cuppa after all of this anyhow.

Sherlock stood by the window as he waited, staring down at the street as he’d done many time before. He listened to John move about the kitchen, putting on the kettle and readying his cup, and tried to remember his separate apologies. He hoped to hell that John would go with the most likely option and chin him; it would make for the easiest apology. When he heard footsteps approaching the sitting room, he turned around and stepped forward.

John didn’t see him at first, but when he did, his eyes widened as though he’d seen - well, a ghost.

“John,” the detective said immediately, holding out his hands. “I know this is extremely-“

“How- How did-” John sputtered, stumbling backwards. “Who are you?!” he demanded.

The doctor backed up until he hit the wall, having dropped his cane in surprise. He fumbled for the gun pressing sharply into the small of his back and inquired again, “Who the hell are you?!”

So, he thought Sherlock wasn’t real, then. Plan D.

“John, it is me, I-” he began, but the doctor interrupted him.

“How do you know my name, what are you doing here?” he questioned, finally pulling his gun out and holding it steadily in the detective’s direction.

Sherlock could feel his stomach drop.

“You… Don’t know…” he whispered, “Don’t recognise me.”

‘Psychogenic amnesia/repression,’ was the explanation that popped into Sherlock’s mind. He could see the words list themselves beside the doctor’s head. ‘Deliberate or subconscious amnesia that causes the affected to forget a traumatic event, person, or place.’

“I’m leaving,” Sherlock said quickly. “Terribly sorry, Doctor Watson, I… Was out of line.” The detective hurried out the door with a swish of greatcoat, leaving John with his head pounding, wondering what the hell had just happened as he lowered his gun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wated to continue with this but I didn't know what to do with it. I'm a lazy writer.


	10. Interruptions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Anonymous** requested Lestrade and his team interrupting John/Sherlock on the sofa. Bonus points if Mycroft shows up. Double bonus points if Mystrade.
> 
> (I missed out on Mycroft but I got the Mystrade bit!)

 

“We haven’t been called in to do this for months, what’s with the sudden rush over?” Donovan question. It wasn’t that she didn’t enjoy a chance to get the freak in trouble - it was great when they did actually find something. The problem was that their finding something was such an uncommon occurrance that it really wasn’t worth it. 

“His brother tipped me off,” Lestrade said simply, turning the corner so that Baker Street came into view. “After all, since he… came back, the drugs are a more common happening. Sherlock must have been acting off or something.”

“What, exactly, is the point, though?” Anderson inquired. More like whined, truthfully. “Even if we do find something, you don’t  _do_  anything about it. You give him a ‘daddy’s upset with you’ glare and a stern warning, then we walk out.”

“I’m supposed to be taking care of the great git, you dumbass.” Lestrade pulled his car up next to the kerb and turned off the ignition. He twisted in his seat to look back at Anderson. “You volunteered to be on the squad for this a long time ago and knew it was going to be a regular thing. It got a bit off track but we’re getting back into it.” 

The newly reinstated DI turned back around as Anderson huffed and Donovan rolled her eyes, and got out of the car. He pulled the key he kept from his back pocket and unlocked the door as a few more officers from the Yard trailed up to the doorstop.

When they walked inside, the entire flat was silent. There weren’t any shufflings on the floor above, no shouting (as was so common with the two tenants), and there was an absence of Mrs. Hudson’s kitten heels tapping against the hardwood. She must have been out because she always came and greeted them.

“Are we actually going to go upstairs?” Anderson sneered, crossing his arms with impatience.

“Shut up,” Lestrade muttered, taking his eyes off the ceiling to head toward the stairs.

When he reached the top, the door was locked. 

Donovan raised a brow. “Well, that’s new,” she pointed out from a few steps below.

Lestrade hit his fist on the door a few times. “Sherlock, open up!” he ordered, pressing his ear to the door. He heard a very quiet, whispered ‘shit’ that he immediately assumed was the detective. After a minute the door still wasn’t opened so he tried again.

“How don’t you have a key for this door?” Donovan asked with an unamused snort. “Bit ridiculous.”

“Oh, be quiet.” Lestrade stepped back and pulled his wallet from his back pocket, rifled through until he found his AmEx, then took it out and put his wallet back. He braced his shoulder against the door and slotted the card into the small space between the door and the wall. 

“You’re actually trying that?” Anderson asked incredulously.

“It works!” Greg insisted. He bent the card toward himself as far as he could, then snapped it in the opposite direction quickly, causing the door to pop open unwillingly.

Fully expecting to walk in and find Sherlock high, irritated, and dazed, Lestrade and the other officers were a bit more than shocked as they stepped into the sitting room.

It took a minute to piece together the situation. What was first registered was Sherlock, on the sofa. He was hovering over the cushions, propped up on one arm, blue dressing gown draping down and obstructing the view of what the detective was above. Upon closer inspection, however, there were four feet rather than two, and Sherlock was leaning over, hardly aware (or maybe just not caring) that others were there.

Lestrade cleared his throat awkwardly and Sherlock pulled up just the slightest to make an annoyed, snarling sort of sound. 

“Now is truly not the time,” he said irritatedly, turning his head in their direction. 

By this time, most of the Yarders had a very legitimate guess as to who the detective was busy with, but it still came as a surprise of sorts when they heard John Watson’s voice, shy and embarrassed, come from the couch.

“Oi, Sherlock - geroff,” he muttered, shoving Sherlock away softly. He was red faced and clearly both annoyed and uncomfortable. Half of the officers were gaping and the others were staring elsewhere in the room awkwardly.

“Drugs bust, correct? the detective inquired, slipping off the couch to loom over Lestrade. His hair was mussed and his pupils were wide, though judging by the slightly swollen red of his lips, it wasn’t due to drugs of any kind. “You can bloody well tell Mycroft he’s done his job, then, and get out.”

“Sorry- ah, what?” Lestrade asked, stepping back a tad. 

“I imagine this is payback. He knows I’ve been clean for over three months and he’s searched the flat himself - he is completely aware of the flat that there aren’t any drugs here.” Sherlock crossed his arms with annoyance and Lestrade couldn’t help but roll his eyes at his whiny tone. “So it’s payback, clearly.”

“What for?”

“Because I - quite easily, might I add - figured out that you two are sleeping together.”

Lestrade’s eyes widened almost a humourous measure and Sherlock’s face took on a smirk, the Yarders in the room stood with mouths hanging open, and John had to muffle a laugh with the sleeve of his jumper.

“Now,” the detective continued, “it’s my personal belief that his plan has, for the most part, backfired because it’s hardly surprise to any of you what is happening here. So - get out.”

Lestrade didn’t hesitate to storm out, pulling his phone out as he went. The elder Holmes was going to have some explaining to get done.


	11. Deprivation

It’s two and a half weeks after the taxi driver case and it hasn’t been spoken of since. The neither man felt a particular need to bring it up, though John was having a few conflicting thoughts as to why he was compelled to shoot a man with only a short moment’s hesitation. Nevertheless, the time spent in the flat has been busy with rearranging and unpacking and they’ve had only one other case up until now. 

The first thing John notices is that Sherlock stops eating.

“Aren’t you going to have breakfast?” he questions, sitting down with a mug of tea and some toast. He quirks a brow in the detective’s direction - he’s pacing across the sitting room with his hands steepled under his chin.

“Not hungry; thinking,” Sherlock replies without missing a beat, turning on his heel. “So simple, it’s  _so simple_ , John! What am I missing?”

John isn’t sure whether or not the inquiry is rhetorical or not but Sherlock resumes muttering frantically under his breath for a few minutes before growling and running out. John tries to follow but the detective is gone before he has the chance.

He sends him a text and returns to the sitting room to clean up his things. His phone goes off three minutes later and the only message is an address so he hails a cab and heads out.

—

After a night spent out searching for mislabed jumper tags on women in a club, John’s ready to fall into bed after a quick breakfast. It only takes him a minute to realise Sherlock has other plans.

“We need to get ahold of her clothing,” he says the minute they step inside. His coat is flung onto the sofa and he strides over to retrieve his laptop.

“We’ve been out all night; you should get something to eat and take a rest.” John leans against the arm of what has been deemed his chair and crosses his arms. 

“No time!” the detective retorts immediately, already tapping away online. “If I’m correct - and let’s face the blunt truth - then I should be able to— a-ha!” His face lights up like a little kid and he types even faster, like his fingers are their own hurricane. “Perfect - John, call Lestrade, tell him I need the victim’s clothing as evidence and give me the phone when he protests.”

The doctor stares at Sherlock incredulously for a moment and considers telling him no, but ends up shaking his head and dialing Greg’s number. As Sherlock suspected he starts arguing straight away but after two minutes on the phone with the other man they’re back out the door and on their way to St. Bart’s. 

—

On day three, John is stumbling over his feet as they find their way back to the flat. It’s near eight at night and they’ve just gotten back from that club yet again with no results. Sherlock is furious, but - despite not having slept (as far as John knows) for three days - full of energy. He’s already back to pacing, flipping through notes in his moleskine notebook.

“Sherlock, have you actually sat down in the past seventy two hours?” the doctor questions, leaning against the doorframe.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I sat in the cab with you under two minutes ago.”

“You know what I mean. When was the last time you  _slept?_ ”

“Not relevant.”

“It’s completely relevant!” John steps forward and narrows his eyes at the detective. “I know you’ve hardly eaten, too. You’re going to hurt yourself. Do you do this often?”

“Depends on the length of the case - I don’t eat while I work. Digestion slows my thought process.” He tosses his notebook away (it skitters on the floor until it hits the window) and flops on the sofa, fingers finding a comfortable place under his chin. “Sleeping is just a waste of time.”

“Sherlock, this case could go on for another couple of days!” John exclaims. “This is dangerous to your health!”

“John, please be quiet, sensory deprivation is most helpful whilst trying to access my palace.”

“You- what?” the doctor asks incredulously. “Nevermind it - listen, I’m heading up and I’m going to bed. Go to sleep tonight.  _Doctor’s orders_.”

Sherlock peels his eyes open languidly and turns his head to regard his flatmate. “Very well,” he sighs. “Now get out. I’ve things to go over.”

John huffs quietly and shakes his head. “I’d best not hear any bloody violin until tomorrow.  _Past_  seven!” Sherlock scoffs but doesn’t try to argue so John turns around and lugs himself upstairs.

—

When John gets up in the morning at a pleasing eight o’clock the flat is silent and he hopes that Sherlock is still in bed. Having him flitting around is distracting and he wants a chance to eat without feeling uneasy. He pulls on a shirt and pads out of his room, combing through his sleep-mussed hair with drowsy fingers. As he steps into the sitting room a deep-voiced “good morning” makes him jump and snap to awareness.

“Err- morning,” he returns warily. Sherlock seems to have not moved from the previous night’s position. “… How long have you been awake?”

“Three hours.”

“Sherlock.”

“Okay, maybe eight.”

“Sherlock!” John groans, rubbing his forehead with the heel of his hand.

“I slept as you asked,” the detective mutters, unfazed. “You did not, however, specify how long I should sleep.”

“I’d have figured a full night was implied.”

“Implications can be taken wrong.”

“Not by you,” John mumbles bitterly. “Whatever. Too late now. You’re having breakfast.” The detective complies after fifteen minutes arguing and eats half a plate of eggs and a bite of toast with jam. John makes a note to have a proper look at the man later to check for self-negligence. 

—

It’s about two in the morning, give or take fifteen minutes. One of the lights in the corner of Lestrade’s office is flickering every few seconds, which normally wouldn’t get to John but he hasn’t slept for thirty-three hours and his eyes are tired. His body isn’t, because of the adrenaline, but he’ll be crashing soon. 

“Alright… I think that’s about it,” Lestrade says, scribbling a final something into his notes. He glances to John with a weary smile. “First big one for you, yeah?”

“First one that’s caused sleep deprivation, at least,” John returns with a grin. Sherlock is tapping something out on his phone with a bored expression and ignoring the pair.

“Well, you did pretty good for a new guy.” The DI closes the manilla file folder on his desk and runs a hand through his hair, beginning to eye Sherlock somewhat nervously. “You’re free to head home. If we have anymore questions we’ll give you a call, but I think everything is sorted out.”

“Thanks. I think we’ll be off then. Sherlock?” John turns to him in slight, gaze imploring as he peers up at the detective. His brow furrows slightly when he hears Lestrade mutter, ‘give it a moment,’ and he opens his mouth to ask what he meant, but as he does so Sherlock gives a quiet noise. A whimper, nearly. “Sherlock?” the doctor inquires, tone more concerned. The detective’s eyes fall shut and his stance falters, legs starting to give under him. John moves forward on instinct and ends up with Sherlock leaning on his shoulder, face buried in his neck.

“What the great bloody fuck is wrong with him?!” he questions, stumbling in slight as he tries to reposition the detective.

Lestrade has trouble hiding the smirk (partially fondness, but also amusement) on his face as he responds. “Case is over; adrenaline’s run out. He’s dead to the world.” Lestrade lifts his wrist to glance halfheartedly at his watch before shrugging. “You should be getting him home.”

“You’re not going to help me at all, are you?”

“Hey, you signed up for this job,” the DI says with a grin. John has to bite his tongue to keep from pointing out that he’s never had a flatmate that requires him to  _carry_ home his limp body after a week of chasing after a criminal.

“Everyone in this town is nutters,” he hisses, shifting his armful of detective. He gives Greg a final hopeful look. “No chance in waking him?”

“When was the last time he slept?”

John groans and his leg gives a sympathetic throb. 

“Best get used to it. I suggest you don’t set him down anywhere. Hard to get back up - lots of limbs.”


	12. Say Nothing

 

It’s just past ten at night. One of the earliest times they’ve ever finished a chase. John wonders why they all happen at night. Sherlock thinks Lestrade should just confront his wife about her affair (third one now). He says nothing.

The DI dismisses them and they head out to get a cab home. It takes less than two minutes. John decides Sherlock’s height advantage is unfair; it always takes him at least five to hail a taxi. Sherlock thinks the cabbie should lessen her diet pill intake. It’s clearly making her sleep less effective. The cabbie wonders what a middle-aged gay couple is doing out at ten in the evening. John catches the look she’s giving them and raises a brow that clearly says, ‘I know what you’re thinking, and you’re wrong.’ As he climbs in after Sherlock he thinks  _but god, do I ever wish you weren’t._

Sherlock has his phone out as soon as he gives the cabbie the address. John relaxes against the seat and thinks he ought to have had more coffee earlier. Sherlock glances over and wonders what triggered last night’s nightmare. 

They’re five minutes from home but the movement of the taxi has lulled John to sleep. His head his tilted in a what looks uncomfortable position and is just resting on Sherlock’s shoulder. The cabbie sees the momentary fond smile Sherlock directs at him. Sherlock sees the cabbie’s look and responds with a glare. He thinks a lot of things. He says nothing, but shifts upward a bit so John won’t get a crick in his neck. 

The cab pulls up to Baker Street and Sherlock pays the cabbie.

“John,” he says softly. “Home. Get up.”

John murmurs something unintelligible but with a bit of coaxing he’s somewhat awake. Sherlock helps him out of the cab with a secure arm around his back. The cabbie wants them to hurry so she can finish her shift. Sherlock thinks people should mind their own business. He finally stands up out on the pavement and shuts the door with his foot.

Mrs. Hudson greets them in the foyer.

“You’re back earlier than usual - oh! Is he quite alright?”

Half drunk with exhaustion, John is leaning almost entirely on Sherlock, still swimming over the lines of consciousness.

“Just in need of a good sleep,” Sherlock assures her, repositioning his arm to better support John’s deadweight. He thinks she’s taken one too many soothers this evening. She thinks John looks adorably free of stress whilst trying to bury his face in Sherlock’s coat.

With a bit of difficulty they make it upstairs. Sherlock decides that trying to get John to his room would be too much of a challenge so instead he directs the doctor toward his own room. John wonders vaguely whether or not he’s dreaming and figures, yeah, that makes sense. In result, he leans on Sherlock even more. Sherlock contemplates just dropping him.

Sherlock flips the light on to make sure John won’t trip on the pile(s) of books on his floor. He leads the doctor to his bed and sits him down. He undoes John’s coat and leans down to push it off his shoulders. John leans forward and lifts a hand to Sherlock’s face as their lips meet.

John wonders for a minute if maybe this isn’t a dream and figures if it isn’t he’s going to have a hell of a time in the morning. Sherlock thinks John ought to brush his teeth but that his lips are softer than they looked and taste inexplicably of tea. He can’t recall John having any before they ran out.

Sherlock pulls away after a moment and takes John’s coat. He lies John down on one of his pillows and draws the duvet up. A moment of contemplation later he steals a kiss of his own and wonders if John will remember the next morning. John decides that no, this isn’t a dream and thinks Sherlock might have had a cigarette earlier. Sherlock turns off the light but leaves the door open when he walks out.

Neither of them say anything. 

 


	13. To Hell With It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **i-o-u-a-fall** requested: John Watson - Strikhedonia (the pleasure of being able to say "to hell with it")

He notices.

He doesn’t remember when he started noticing, but he notices. Little things. He’s not normally the one that notices the little things; he’s the one that praises the one that notices the little things.

Still, he notices.

He notices the difference in the way Sherlock looks at him for a split second; it’s gone just a moment later. He notices smiles and smirks and impressed expressions that weren’t there before, that are hardly discreet, but maybe he just hasn’t been looking. Lingering touches that could just be his imagination, but why would he be imagining that? Less proximity, but hell, this is Sherlock, come on.

But he notices, and he hadn’t been noticing before. As far as he knows, nothing has changed.

Other than the fact that he’s okay with the things he’s noticing. More than okay. And it’s a bit concerning.

Of course, it shouldn’t be. The looks and the brushes and the smiles and the noticing, they probably mean nothing. But it’s Sherlock, which means they could mean anything. 

The anything that John has in mind is completely unlikely. Sherlock? No. Not a chance in hell; he’s the king of disinterest.

Then again, there’s the fact that John’s rather sure that he’s the only person Sherlock has ever managed to live with amiably. He’s quite possibly the only friend the man has ever had.

Not to mention the fact that John’s not - err, well. Mostly not.

No, of course not.

Though, another thing he notices is that some of those  _looks_  elicit a jump in his heart rate. There’s not really an excuse for that.

So, maybe just a bit. It’s just Sherlock. Only Sherlock.

He’s jumping ahead of himself, anyway. As previously mentioned, it’s Sherlock. Married to his work.

But  _that_  look says otherwise.

John’s eyes dart from his laptop to Sherlock and he has to make an effort not to jump from the intensity of the stare that his flatmate has fixated on him. He looks away quickly, making a few taps at the keys.

_the suspect was 0f9jb_

Eloquent. He frowns and backspaces, ignoring the heat in his cheeks.

“Is there something I can help you with?” he pipes up after a moment, daring another glance at Sherlock. Still staring. Fixedly. It’s really kind of unnerving, but now he can’t look away. The man’s gaze is like superglue.

“Thinking,” Sherlock mutters absently, narrowing his eyes.

John huffs quietly. “Yeah, I noticed - you get this funny look about you, and at the moment it’s stuck on me, and - quite honestly - it’s freaking me out a bit.” He tilts his head and stares right back, feeling somewhat idiotic.

“I realised,” Sherlock says slowly. John wonders if he’s actually lucid at all, or if he’s just programmed with a set of responses. Maybe they’ve had this conversation before. John wouldn’t remember. Sherlock would. Even if he’s not all there during it.

“And you still do nothing about it. Are you actually there?” John gives a little wave and shuts his computer with his other hand. “If I walked away right now would you even care?”

Sherlock snorts quietly. “Of course I would,” he replies, blinking a few times. “You broke my concentration.”

“Your concentration was weirding me out,” John rebuts. 

“Never has before,” Sherlock muses, pursing his lips. “Bit obvious.”

“I’m sure I don’t even have to ask what it is because whether or not I want to know, you’re going to tell me.”

“Just trying to figure out for how long,” Sherlock says disconnectedly.

“Oh, are you still - christ, it’s really odd, the way you can carry on talking whilst you’re up there,” John tells him. Well, not really him. Just his body. He’s somewhere else entirely.

“Mmm,” Sherlock hums. “Can’t have been for more than five months.”

“At least you’re speaking English this time,” John mutters. “When you start going off in French you seem sort of possessed.”

“Can you just shut up for thirty seconds?” Sherlock breathes, waving a hand loosely. “Thinking.”

“Staring,” John corrects bitterly, folding his hands on top of his computer.

There’s a long pause, then Sherlock remarks, “three. Makes the most sense.”

“Woop-dee-doo,” John mumbles, wiggling his fingers.

“I’m surprised you’ve not made a comment, though,” Sherlock continues. “Suppose you’re not the forward type about these kind of things.”

“What?” John questions, growing impatient.

“Ridiculous if you think I’m going to be the first one to move,” Sherlock prattles on, finally shaking his head and pushing out of his chair. “But you’ve noticed and not commented.”

John raises a brow and watches Sherlock as he begins to pace. “Noticed?”

“Clearly,” Sherlock dismisses. “If you thought I’d been oblivious to it, it’s your fault for being so transparent.”

“Are you actually going to explain what’s going on or are you just going to ramble on about nothing into thin air.”

“Not nothing.”

“Not something, either,” John grumbles, moving his computer to the floor beside his chair. He stands and stretches his back, grimacing at the pop it gives.

“Where are you going?” Sherlock asks, spinning on his heel to face John.

“T’start the kettle,” John tells him. “You want a cuppa?”

“Mm, no,” Sherlock mutters, stepping forward. “I want you to tell me how long you’ve been noticing and not acting.”

“Ah - noticing?”

“Yes, noticing,” Sherlock replies. “You’ve been noticing, just haven’t said anything about it; odd, that. You always make some sort of comment on changed behaviour of mine but this one has silenced you.”

John swallows tightly. Ah. “Right, the - right, well. It’s not like you - ” he cuts off and shakes his head slowly. “No, this is some kind of study, right? Because that’s what you do. You use me for social experiments.”

“Oh, just the once,” Sherlock insists, smirking for just a moment.

“The once was enough, thanks,” John says, moving to turn away. Sherlock reaches out instantly and grabs his wrist - not hard, but firmly - and holds him in place. “Christ, you realise you can still talk to me when I’m in the kitchen?”

“The fact that you’ve not mentioned the change indicates one of two things,” Sherlock murmurs. “Either you’re uncomfortable with the idea, or you’re too nervous to make the first move.”

“I’m uncomfortable with the fact that I’m stuck here in the sitting room and you won’t get to your point,” John says exasperatedly, glaring up at Sherlock. His breath hitches when he sees the man’s wide pupils staring right back at him.

“No, I don’t think that’s quite it,” Sherlock returns. It sounds like he’s holding back laughter and it makes John want to hit him. Hard.

“Married to your work,” John reminds him tersely, wrenching his wrist out of his grip.

“Not gay,” Sherlock breathes, letting his arm drop.

John clenches his teeth. “You can’t - you’re not allowed to just toy with my head, do you know that?”

“You know that I’m not.”

“Sherlock,” John mutters. 

Sherlock frowns and lifts a hand to let his fingers ghost along John’s jawline and drift down to settle in the juncture of his neck and shoulder. He takes another step forward and looks down at John with the hint of a smile on his lips.

“Married to your work,” John repeats quietly.

“Not. Gay,” Sherlock mutters, a healthy pause between each word.

John looks up at him and takes a shaky breath. “To hell with that,” he exhales, placing a hand on Sherlock’s chest. A swell of elation threatens to knock him over as Sherlock leans down and his curls tickle John’s forehead. Their lips brush together and John notices that Sherlock smells like that disgusting experiment in the kitchen and cigarettes and he notices that his lips are wonderfully soft and warm and he notices that he’s kissing Sherlock Holmes and to hell with anyone who says he can’t.

And god, that feels great.


	14. PR- 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after Sherlock's return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was bored at one in the morning and then a series began. There's not really any context to this. Sorry.

When Sherlock steps in the door, he sees John leaning over his armchair, gripping the back with white knuckles. He comes to a halt quickly and blinks a few times before taking a small step forward.

“John?”

“You left the flat,” John whispers hoarsely. 

“I needed to - “

“You left the flat -  _fuck_ , Sherlock, you’ve only been here for twelve hours and you left the flat,” he chokes out, taking a shaky breath in. “I thought I - that you - you can’t do that.”

“John, I didn’t - ” Sherlock starts. “I apologise. I needed to return something to Mycroft.”

“I could have done with a little warning,” John says. “You just up and left while I was asleep and I woke up and you were gone - I thought I’d imagined it all and I can’t - ” He shakes his head and releases the chair, hugging his arms to his chest. “I can’t just be imagining this all again, please.”

Sherlock takes a hesitant step forward, reaching up to tug his scarf off and toss it at the couch. “I’m here,” he says. He holds up a hand and it hovers above John’s shoulder before tentatively resting on the woolen material of his jumper. “I promise.”

John sniffs quickly and wipes off his face with his sleeve, straightening up, soldiering on.

“Don’t leave,” he says quietly. “Don’t leave again.”

“I’ll stay here,” Sherlock tells John. “I’m not going to vanish.”

“I know,” John mutters. “But it’s going to take awhile for it all to sink in.”

“I’ll be here for as long as it takes, and longer.”

John turns to face him and looks up at Sherlock’s face, nodding slowly. “Thank you.”

“It’s nothing,” Sherlock mumbles. He lets his hand slip from John’s shoulder but John grabs it swiftly, holding it tightly, his eyes shut and holding back burning tears.

“It’s a lot. It’s everything.”


End file.
